Haymitch's Girl
by handcuffedsoul
Summary: He has done everything he can to push the demons of the Games from his mind. But there is something else that drives Haymitch to the bottle: the ones he lost after his own Hunger Games. His family, and the girl that he loved. Buried deep in his heart, safe there for all eternity, is Delianna, Haymitch's Girl.
1. Washing dishes

Haymitch's Girl

**A/N: **This chapter takes place about six months after the fall of the Capitol.

Chapter 1

"I have another name for the book."

I'm startled by Haymitch's appearance by my side. Not because he has another addition to my memory book, the one I began to write to remember all the important people in our lives, to remember the victors from previous Hunger Games, to memorialize the one who's deaths were so senseless. Though we have filled out hundreds of pages already, occasionally someone thinks of another person who should not be overlooked.

Normally, Haymitch's so soused that his gait is accompanied by thunderous stomps. I think he does it on purpose to annoy me.

I finish the dish I was cleaning with a quick swipe with my rag. As I place the plate onto the drying rack next to the sink I try to figure out how Haymitch was able to sidle up the way he did.

"Another victor?"

Turning to face him, I realize I haven't seen Haymitch in over a week, since his stash of white alcohol ran out. Sometimes, when I know he's running low, I will sneak over to his house and restock a bottle or two. I figure he's earned it. But the pharmacy was out, too, and has been waiting on a shipment for a long while. At some point recently I heard a news story about a derailed train carrying a shipment to 12. I assume his supply was on that train.

Our new factories produce many different kinds of medicines, for ailments from sore throats to mental instabilities. But they don't make alcohol, not even medicinal or rubbing. At first I thought that it was a good sign, that maybe Haymitch could wean himself down off the stuff. The Hunger Games are finally over. But the memories, the nightmares, they live on. They plague my sleep, they torture Peeta's conscious mind. I understand his need for drink. It's like my need to hunt. To free my mind, to clear it of those demons, to find a moment of solitude in a destroyed world.

It only stops the pain briefly. But it's better than nothing. So I let him have his spirits.

"No." Haymitch pulls out a chair from the kitchen table, plops himself down on the wood, moaning slightly as if he were in physical pain. There is something off about him today, and I can't quiet place it. "She wasn't a victor, not in the sense we were."

"Are," I correct him. We are all victors, and nothing or nobody can take that from us. I don't think of it in the sense of the Games, not anymore. I was a pawn of the Capitol, just like Peeta and Johanna and Beetee and Finnick and the rest of us. No, we are victors of the rebellion. We brought down the Capitol, we killed Snow. Well, we didn't technically kill Snow. I had the chance, and I made the decision to kill Coin instead. But it was us, the victorious rebels, who ended the tyranny and gave our people the chance to start again.

"Are," he repeats as he waves his hand. But his tone lacks its usual bite. I walk around the table so that I can see him face to face. His eyes are red, but not from alcohol. His face is puffy, and I can see clearly that he is completely sober. He has been crying. Yes, the tears are long gone, but their aftermath is still visible.

For a moment I freeze. Haymitch has been crying, and he has sought me out. This is the type of thing Peeta is better to handle. He would know just how to address him without being condescending, would know the right words to comfort him. Because the longer I stare at Haymitch, who must have decided that the flowered tablecloth is the most fascinating thing ever since he can't meet my eyes, I can tell that whoever he wants to add to the book was very important to him. Haymitch, the miserable, uncouth, untidy, scornful drunk who has been alone for longer than I have been alive. This person he wants to add to the book was someone that he loved.

"Do you maybe want to wait for Peeta?" I ask lamely. Haymitch shakes his head. "Okay, well let me find the book."

I am about to turn down the hallway that leads to my bedroom. Our bedroom, Peeta's and mine. Because even though he still has his own home in Victors Village, which is where he currently is, fixing a hole in the roof, he has come to spend his nights here. There were many nights when I wanted to be alone, to cry myself to sleep, snared by nightmares of Prim engulfed in flames, me unable to save her this one last time. But I knew I needed him with me, to halt the thrashing, to murmur soothing words in my ears. It became a deal between the two of us. We need each other. We love each other.

But Haymitch stops me from my destination. "No," his voice cracks. I fear that he will begin crying again, but I reprimand myself. Haymitch may not be a part of the deal between Peeta and I, but he is the next closest family we have. Plus, when has Haymitch ever cried voluntarily in front of me? This is something very important, and I get the overwhelming sense that this is something he wants, he _needs_ to tell me, only me.

"Okay," I whisper, unable to speak any louder. I feel a lump form in my throat, even though he hasn't told me anything yet. I return to the table and pull out a chair of my own. "You don't want me to write it down?"

He shakes his head. "Later." He finally brings his gaze up to meet mine, and they are rimmed with that red, that telltale red that he is about to tell me something no one else knows. "Maybe."

Not knowing exactly how to start, since normally I would have a pen and paper to utilize, I wait for him to begin. I really wish I had the book in front of me. Sometimes the stories are so heartbreaking that I let the emotions pour through me and into the pen. I become numb and the words bear the grunt of the pain, the poor soul whose life was mercilessly taken by the Capitol. But without the book I feel naked, exposed and vulnerable. Maybe Haymitch wants me to be this way, so I truly understand.

"I'm ready," I encourage, when Haymitch says nothing. His eye's dart to the front door, the one I left open so I could feel the cool breeze as I washed. I always have a door or window open, so I know I can breathe, that there is air. I hate being shut in, it reminds me of the mines and the underground tunnels of the Capitol. And I need the air, the cool air that eluded me in the Quarter Quell.

"Can you shut that?"

Swallowing back that lump in my throat, and fighting my baser need for openness, I lean far enough back in my chair so that my fingers just graze the handle. I push forward on it and the heavy door quietly clicks shut. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"Who is she?" I prompt. I'm not prepared to hear this story, whoever she is. But I get the feeling that once Haymitch tells it, a giant weight will be lifted from his shoulders. Of course some of it will land on me, but I decide I'm willing to bear some of the burden. "I'm ready," I repeat.

"Her name was Delianna. I loved her. And they killed her." His voice is so void of emotion that it's jarring. It was as if I asked him how his geese raising business was going.

Loved her? Haymitch once told me, a million years and a thousand miles ago, that he had a girlfriend before the games. That only two weeks after becoming the victor of the fiftieth Hunger Games his family and his girl were dead. He has never mentioned it since, not until now anyway. It was something that I knew better than to ask. Now it seems he is ready to tell me.

"She was your girlfriend, before the game?" I ask, softly. This conversation is so unlike us, so serious, no fight in it at all.

He nods, then knits his brows. "I want to tell you her story. I want you to know that she lived, that she died. I want to relieve myself of her memory." He looks up again at me, his eyes boring into mine. "This is between us, Katniss."

"I thought you wanted to put it in the book," I counter, but with no heat. Merely a clarifying question.

"Later, maybe. But I need you to know. To know her."

"Okay. Tell me her story."

"Her name was Delianna," he repeats, but his voice catches on her name. "She had long brown hair, like you. And she wore her hair in the same way everyday, like you with your braid. Except she used to pull the top of it away from her face and tie it, and let the bottom hang down straight. She had the bluest eyes I have ever seen, bluer than Peeta's. They stood out so much from the other kids from the Seam. And her skin was so pale it was almost white." He is struggling. It's like I can feel the tension coiled within my own muscles, taut to the point of tearing. I know, without him telling me, that he has not conjured up her image in a very long time. Maybe not even that day he first mentioned her. Hers is a memory buried very deep within his heart, deep as the mineshafts. "She wasn't traditionally beautiful." There is a pause here, dragging on for just a beat. Then another. "She was beautiful to me."

I try to put together a picture in my mind. He implied that she was from the Seam. The dark hair, yes that makes sense. Most of the Seam kids had that. But the blue eyes? That was a trait of the townspeople, the ones who had what little money there was in 12. Like Peeta. Like…I swallow as I think of her. Like Prim.

Those eyes, and the pale skin, yes, she must have been like Prim. One parent from the town, one from the Seam.

"Maybe I could get a glass of water?" Haymitch snaps out of his reverie, and eyes the pitcher sitting on the counter. I stand and grab two glass, fill them and hand one to him. He drinks greedily. "Thanks" He downs the rest, and clears his throat.

"She certainly wasn't a pain like you." He laughs at this, but not out of malice, or even out of humor. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing this isn't about me. "But there was something about her…when I met you I saw it again."

"She could hunt?" I offer.

"No," This time the laugh does have a bit of humor behind it. "Certainly not. She was a thinker."

A thinker? Haymitch has never thought of me as a thinker. _I _don't think of me as a thinker. That's Peeta. Where is he going with this?

"Well, unless she was a Mockingjay, I don't know what else we could have in common." I know this probably isn't helping. But that sadness that permeated the room only moments before seems to be ebbing, ever since that first chuckle.

Haymitch's mouth twitches, just slightly. Like he's choosing his words carefully. At last he finally decides. "She couldn't use a bow. But, like you Katniss, she was a fighter."


	2. Knocked on the wrong door

**Haymitch's Girl**

You weren't the first girl on fire, Katniss Everdeen.

No, I shouldn't say that. It's a bad joke. Hardly a joke really. She deserves better than that.

Definitely deserved better than me.

I didn't really know her past until much later. I got bits and pieces from Delianna herself, but most of it came from people I asked after she died. If I'm going to tell you her story I guess I should start from the beginning.

You thought you came from humble beginnings? At least you were born to a family that loved you. Don't give me that look; I know your mother went loopy after your dad died, but I used to watch your little family every now and then, when I'd wander around the District with nothing to do. Your parents loved you. Your parents loved each other. I remember once, before they married, seeing Peeta's father talking to her. He was flirting, at least that's what I think he was doing, trying his best to get her attention. But she was searching around the town square for a glimpse of your dad. I was standing in front of the pharmacy, or the doctors, I don't remember, somewhere with booze. I could almost feel a blast of energy when she finally spotted him. She pushed away Peeta's dad and raced over to him and jumped into his arms. He was covered in coal dust, filthy from head to toe, but she didn't care. He squeezed her tight, and I remember he kissed her on her forehead. It was so simple, but even a drunken slob like myself could tell just how in love those two were.

Why am I telling you this? Empathy, sweetheart. You have your good qualities, but understanding others' feelings isn't your strong suit.

You understand now, right? Love. Romantic. Platonic. Familial. You see where I'm going with this. Maybe you ended up in the arena, but you started with a family. Your father taught you to hunt, to shoot, and to understand nature.

Delianna's father tried to burn her alive.

* * *

Her mother was a poor girl from the Seam. She had no skills, no job, no other family. She was in and out of the orphanage, staying only long enough to eat a meal and get a night's rest. She wore the same clothing all the time, and was so thin it looked like her bones were snap with every step. I heard from several sources that she had once been beautiful, but years of struggling just to stay alive had hallowed her out, skin and bones and no time for good looks.

I don't know what happened to her family, or what led her to her solitude. No one ever gave me a straight answer. It doesn't matter though. It's the story of life in the Seam.

Well, her mother had to find a way to live. She was too weak for any physical labor. But she had one skill that she used, along with many of the other girls in the Seam. Don't you remember Old Cray? How he _invited _girls to his home, and paid them for their company? Squirming a bit there, aren't we? Did you ever consider that option when you were starving, before the games?

No? Good…I couldn't bear it if you did.

Well, this girl had no other choice. Before Cray, there was a different Head Peacekeeper. I think his name was Oberon. Something like that. I always thought he sounded like a mythical beast. Anyway, he was a thousand times worse than Cray. He was never charged, but we all heard the stories about girls who went into his house and never came out. Killed. No one wanted to think about how. Other girls came out bloodied from head to toe, but a few coins richer. And you know better than I how a few coins can feel like a million when you're on death's doorstep.

At one point she was banished from his home. That's when you knew you've hit bottom. He probably had no use for the bag of bones she had become. She couldn't perform services.

Stories vary about how she ended up there, but from what Delianna was told, her mother became so desperate that she started banging on the doors of people in the town, hoping that some lonely single man wanted some company. She found the home of a young banker, a handsome man who was engaged to the town beauty. The man was cruel, though. He wanted nothing to do with this beggar girl. He pushed her away and tried to slam the door in her face.

Just as the door was swinging closed, she stuck her hand in its path. It probably broke a finger or two. The banker, whose name was Tyrone, was enraged; he pulled her into his house and threw her against the wall.

That's where memories get murky. Or even, blocked out. That poor girl, what she must have gone through that night.

You know where I'm going with this, right? I don't need to spell out what he did.

It's a miracle that she could carry a child at all. It's a miracle she didn't throw herself against the fence, which was still electrified at the time. You wouldn't have been able to escape off into the woods if you lived back then. You would've gone crazy, wouldn't you?

She must have been about eighteen at the time. Too old for the orphanage. But they took her in when they discovered she was pregnant. Someone with a good heart probably lied about her age, which couldn't have been too hard since she was so small.

Once she began to show, she stayed inside most of the time. She was so used to shame that she was numb to it. But she was terrified of Tyrone. The old orphanage used to face the square, before they moved it closer to the Seam. She would see him milling about, going on with his life. What would he do if he knew?

He found out.

One old man who witnessed it told me about the day that she was brought to the Seam's medic. She had to cross through the town square to get to him, because she was in labor and it was going to be a very difficult birth. Tyrone was out and about, probably trying to collect debts from business folk. He saw her, recognized her and saw the bulge of her stomach. He was a smart guy, and figured it out pretty damn quick. He raced across the square, pulled her out of the arms of the orphanage's director, who was holding her steady, and punched her clear across the face. She went down like a sack of potatoes. The director tried to help her but Tyrone just pushed her back. He went back to kicking her swollen belly until a Peacekeeper finally pulled him off her and dragged him away.

The town doctor was summoned and tried to save her, but she was long gone. Bloodied and broken, she probably felt every punch every last kick. That poor girl, just another child of the Seam with a sad story and a violent death.

Maybe if her name had been called at a Reaping she could have fared better. I mean, look at you.

No, no, don't leave. Shouldn't have said that. You know I didn't mean it like that.

You understand, don't you? Not everyone got a happy ending like you.

Yes, compared to others who came before you, you have it good.

Katniss, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to tell this poor girl's story. It isn't about you. I'll try to stop making those comments, really.

This is hard. I haven't spoken of her since…damn, twenty-five years?

No, damn it. I don't want Peeta. I want to tell you! Just…give me a moment to…to collect myself.

Okay. You ready for me to go on? Good.

Well, her mother's body was broken, but Delianna was still alive. The doctor had to perform a Caesarian birth. It's a medical procedure that cuts open the belly and pulls the baby from the mother. He did it right there in the square, in the middle of the day, with everyone watching.

And that's how she came into this world. Into District 12.

Maybe her mother did love her. Maybe when she felt her baby move, felt her kick that she had a twinge of hope of a new start, a baby to love. No one could ever have known. I like to think that she did. That someone loved my Delianna before I did. But that's pure conjecture.

She was brought to the orphanage for a while. Not the best place for a newborn, what with all the disease and the lack of food and the unsanitary conditions. Of course, that's what the rest of the Seam was like so what was the difference, really? Despite a rough start, she had as much of a chance as any Seam kid.

Except not every Seam kid was fathered by a wealthy banker with a temper.

Tyrone was married by then, and paranoid about anyone finding out he fathered a child out of wedlock. Wouldn't look too good on his resume if he were to one-day take over the bank. So he came up with a plan: kill the baby.

After a late night bender, fueled by hate and a gas lantern, he made his way over to the orphanage. With no concern for the poor children inside, trying to sleep on dirty cots, four to a bed, he sneaked in and found Delianna, fast asleep. He poured the gasoline across the crib and struck a match.

…..They couldn't put it out fast enough.

The left side of her body was burned. Her cheek, her arm, her legs, all ablaze. Tyrone was able to make it out in the chaos unscathed, disappearing through the smoke into the night as workers raced to her room to try to save her and the other children.

That bastard.

It took a long time to heal. If it hadn't been for Kheen, she might not have made it.

…..I never got to thank him.

What? Oh, Kheen was a retiring Peacekeeper who had seen her mother at Oberon's door, knew what happened to her at Tyrone's. He said he'd felt guilty for not saving her mother, so he took the baby in and provided medical care.

He had some extra money, that's how. Geesh, Katniss, give me a moment, alright? It's hard to think when I'm sober. Can I get another glass of water? Let me drink this and I'll go on.


End file.
